


The Lamplight Studies

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Coming Out, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Male Character, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Discovery, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, just a mention of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: It was peaceful, sometimes, at Baker Street. I realize my stories may not tell that part of the tale. The readers of The Strand are not known for their interest in quiet domesticity; and I find that I don’t want to share that side of Sherlock Holmes with the masses. Let him become a legend: I would rather keep the man for myself.Over quiet nights in front of the fire at Baker Street, Holmes and Watson's relationship begins to change.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading about the painter John Singer Sargent when I came across one of his pieces known as The Lamplight Study. The painting has nothing to do with the story, other than the fact that the phrasing stuck with me and ended up inspiring this. 
> 
> It's my first time writing something pastiche-ish. Please let me know what you think of the style, and if it works for you. I really enjoyed writing it, and I would love to work on more canon-era stories.

Holmes hadn’t stirred for at least an hour. He sat in his armchair, brow furrowed, gaze unfocused. It was just beginning to grow dark; soon I would have to get up and light the lamp. God knows Holmes wouldn’t do it.

Just as I was about to rouse myself, a glow came in through the window: the lamplighter making his rounds. It illuminated the room enough that I could continue reading for a few moments more. My body resisted the idea of rising, moving about and disturbing our peace.

It was peaceful, sometimes, at Baker Street. I realize my stories may not tell that part of the tale. The readers of _The Strand_ are not known for their interest in quiet domesticity; and I find that I don’t want to share that side of Sherlock Holmes with the masses. Let him become a legend: I would rather keep the man for myself.

The words on the page started to blur; it was too dark to continue reading. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, idly looking at my flatmate. The light from the window hit him softly, buffing the edges of his sharp features – the aquiline nose, the strong chin. Somehow in twilight, Holmes looked young, vulnerable even. I sat pondering the change in him, one I glimpsed only rarely. I was interrupted by a perfunctory knock, immediately followed by the door opening.

“Goodness, Doctor, what are you doing in the dark?” Mrs Hudson bustled in, heading straight for the lamp.

“Wait –“ I fumbled as I tried to simultaneously explain myself and delay her progress toward the light. I did not succeed in either measure. A quick turn of our landlady’s wrist, and the room was bathed in cheery light.

Holmes returned to his body at that moment, rousing as if from a deep sleep. In a moment, he was all sharpness again.

“Hudson!” his screech nearly made her jump in the air. “Don’t hover. I’m sure Watson has his reasons.” Here he gave me a glance and smiled. “Even if they defy human logic.”

I returned his smile, momentarily faltering when I realized what this meant. I thought he had been fully disengaged from the material world, but he had absorbed Mrs. Hudson’s words. Had he been aware of me gazing at him, studying him?

Whether or not I had been caught, Holmes moved on. Within a moment he was bounding around the flat again, seeking out his violin and giving the strings several lively strokes. I returned to my book, the room now flooded with light, but found I could not focus. I read a paragraph once, then over again, and again. Finally, I sighed and cast the book aside. Holmes gave me a curious look as he continued his scales.

Long after I had quit our nightly vigil and retired to my room, I heard him absently playing – simple notes, none of the intricacies he often indulged in. All night, his scales climbed and descended, over and over again. I know, because I did not sleep. They kept me company until the morning.

It was several days later, after Lestrade had called us out on a handful of cases which were all dismissed as uninteresting, that we found ourselves again in front of the fire at twilight. This time, I was the one who lost focus, staring into the fire and clutching a glass of whiskey. I heard a hum, and absently looked up at my friend. He was studying me; the look on his face was the same as when faced with an abundance of data to be dissected. His dark eyes glittered in the firelight, and I repressed a shiver that threatened to run up my spine.

“Holmes,” I began tentatively. He hummed again, eyes still boring into me. “My friend, what fascinates you, when you already know me so well?”

Holmes laughed in that quick, explosive way he has, which always startles clients and inspectors.

“My dear Watson, I could study you for decades and still not plumb your depths.” He settled further into the chair, his concentration unbroken. My focus, meanwhile, had scattered, and I leaned forward.

“Absurd! Holmes, I have no secrets from you.”

He shook his head with an amused tilt to his lip.

“I believe you have secrets even from yourself, Watson. I may observe things that you do not know yet; and you may still hide other facets from the both of us.”

I pondered his meaning as I finished off my whiskey, and motioned to ask if he’d like another. He waved me on, and I refilled both our glasses.

As I nursed the second drink, Holmes got distracted and scuttled off to examine some bit of ash or soil; one of the many experiments that litters our rooms, and reveals so much to him while only muddying my own feeble deductions. He says I am improving, but too often I see only my shortcomings.

That night, I fell asleep in my armchair, listening to Holmes murmuring to himself as a chemical concoction bubbled away on the laboratory bench. I woke in full darkness; there was a hand on my shoulder, and a face near my own.

“My dear Watson,” he whispered, “You will be quite intolerable tomorrow if you sleep in this chair.” I groaned in agreement, and he grasped me under the arms and pulled me up, before leading me along the corridor like a nursemaid putting a child to bed.

I landed heavily on my bed, and Holmes knelt in front of me and began unlacing my boots. Once they were removed, he gently pressed me to the sheets, pulled the coverlet up to my chin, and vanished before I could thank him.

I woke up in the morning certain of two things. First, that Sherlock Holmes had been entirely correct. There were things within myself that I’d had no idea of.

Second, I was desperately in love with the man.

How long it had been going on, I could not say. I wondered if Holmes himself could shed some light on that front. Last night, when he spoke of my secrets, did he suspect that this could be one of them? That I was unwittingly breaking the laws of god and country?

In the following weeks, I felt a restrictive need to school my facial expressions, hold in my constant praise, and refrain from reaching out to touch him. All were things I had freely bestowed on him in the years of our friendship. More than once, I felt him look at me questioningly, assessing the change in my behavior. But he did not ask what lay behind it, and I did not volunteer the information.

With one night’s sleep, one tender moment, I had descended into the mindset of a criminal in hiding. I knew I was doomed to fail; after all, I was attempting to disguise my true intentions from the world’s greatest detective. It could only be a matter of weeks before my secret was revealed.

In my weaker moments, I imagined us happy.

Always, always my rational self halted that fantasy before I could take any comfort in it. I knew Holmes well enough to understand that he is not the machine he pretends to be. He may claim that all emotion is abhorrent to him, but I have seen him bestow mercy on a suspect pushed to the limit, offer kindness to a vulnerable client, and shower his own kind of affection on the Irregulars who so often visited our rooms. He is no automaton, of that I was sure. But I found it hard to believe that my friend, the man who valued reason above all, would willingly submit himself to my attentions.

Most of the time, I dared hope that he would not land me in gaol. I was determined that this would be enough happiness for me.


	2. Chapter 2

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, breaking the silence as we sat before the fire once again. “I fear we cannot continue on our current path.”

When I heard those words, my heart nearly stopped. I had been gazing into the fire, and my sudden terror prevented me from looking away from the flames to face my friend. I took several deep breaths, and determined I would play dumb.

“What path is that, Holmes?” I was proud to find that my voice did not shake, but Holmes snorted, showing me he saw through the facade.

“Watson, please look at me,” he said, surprisingly gentle in tone. I reluctantly turned toward him. “You have been by my side on countless cases. You have seen me reveal secrets hidden from all other eyes, and uncover even the most skilled deceptions. Please do not do me the disservice of lying now.”

Those deep breaths would have to sustain me for a while longer; I found that I could not take any more. I was having an intensely physical reaction to Holmes’ question. My eyes dropped to my hands.

“Can you not deduce it, my friend? Must I confess?” I asked quietly. Holmes let out a soft hum that always accompanied his frowns.

“There are too many variables,” he said, more to himself than to me. “And I am too close to see you clearly.” He sounded puzzled and perhaps a little frustrated with himself. I understood; I knew he was loath to admit any blind spots, especially any that stemmed from a personal connection.

“Watson, I beg you,” he continued, more self-assured. “We have been true friends for many years. You have certainly seen the worst of me, with my black moods and chemical indulgences. Please believe that I will not abandon you, whatever troubles you are hiding.”

He spoke earnestly, in a sensitive tone that would shock many – my readers included. It cast my mind back to his treatment of the vulnerable young ladies who sometimes sought our help in these very rooms.

Receiving that unexpected kindness myself was devastating.

For a long moment, I sat silently, my gaze returning to the fire. How could I tell him? How could I say the words out loud? I risked a glance at his face, illuminated only by the fireplace and a soft glow where the streetlamps bled into the room.

“Holmes, I cannot,” I could not breathe, could not say another word. His gaze, which had been so open, shuttered in that moment. He transformed again into the cold creature I have written of so often.

It was unbearable.

“Wait –” I hesitated, as he softened just a bit. “Holmes, I trust you completely. It has been agonizing to hide from you. And I hope that you can understand – even if you cannot forgive me.” I gathered my courage.

I could feel him studying me, but knew he would not find the truth. I had to say it. I must.

“I’m afraid that I –” another deep breath to gird myself, then – “I am in love with you.”

Holmes stared. I had never seen him look so shocked, and as I cautiously watched him, he transformed.

I have seen it once before; I took it then as his delight in being fooled.

This time, I scarcely dared believe it could be delight. I had not allowed myself to see a favorable end.

“My dear Watson,” he breathed softly, “you see, but you do not observe.”

“Good God, man, don’t torture me! Say what you mean!” I could not abide waiting for my judgement – I must have it now.

“John,”

I trembled. I had never heard my Christian name from those lips. I  knew I may never recover  from it . 

“Although I am not well versed in the softer emotions, I find that I,” he paused, perhaps to gather his own thoughts, or perhaps for dramatic effect – something he surely would have denied, but I knew to be a habit of his.

“I find that I am in love with you, as well.”

We sat silently for several moments, smiling stupidly at each other. I, in a stupor upon finding that my dearest and most forbidden hope had apparently come true; he, perhaps terrified by his own willing foray into an uncharted territory. I shook off my shock, and reached for him.

He let me kiss him; he let me hold him. He clung to me as I lavished upon him everything I had held in.

There, before the fire, bathed in lamplight, our lives changed – and yet, in the years since, I have often remarked upon how little truly changed. For we are partners, as we always were; we share our rooms, our work and our lives; and I know now, as I have since I first met Sherlock Holmes, that I will never again be without him.

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will write my AU where Holmes & John Singer Sargent meet on the continent, and Holmes becomes his muse..... but alas, that day is not today. I hope you enjoyed this in the meantime!


End file.
